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Body Tattoo – blog about tattoo art

Body Tattoo – blog about tattoo art
Latest tattoo news, tattoo ideas, tattoo pictures, tattoo videos.

Blood and Ink Penetration

September 12th, 2008

Who doesn’t enjoy an occasional bout of penetration?

Having your skin stabbed repeatedly with small needles is not a typical source of enjoyment. I never have fancied myself as being typical. Having ink planted under several layers of skin brings me the only peace of mind I know. I enjoy being tattooed.

The endorphin rush overflows my senses when I walk into the studio. Some people call them shops, but I see a tattooist’s lair as an art studio more so than a place of business. I find it near laughable to think of going under the needle as a simple business transaction. Even though most tattoo artists pull in more cash than a three breasted stripper I find myself unable to think of these people who use my skin as their own personal coloring book as businessmen.

My face cannot deny the smile of pure joy when the bell jingles as I walk in the front door. Sure, the neon signs out front proudly declare the goings-on inside, but seeing, hearing, smelling, and feeling the life changing alterations bring a sense of sensual overload and emotional high.

I can detect the scent of the anti-septic spray from across the room. That sweet aroma beckons my olfactory system to shift into high gear, and my nostrils are quick to comply. The peppermint window cleaner acts as a synthetic pheromone, drawing me into a euphoric state of mental conjugation between dream and reality.

My eyes dart across the room, observing everything in their path. Artwork litters the walls; hand drawn portraits of horror film celebrities, nostalgic cartoon characters of the seventies and eighties painted upon skate board decks, photos and newspaper clippings of artwork and accolades from days gone by. Not a single color in the spectrum of light can escape the capture of the artist’s hand.

If, outside the realm of rock and roll from the sixties and seventies, there were a sound my ears lusted to hear, it would be the buzz of the iron as it clawed its way across the skin of a walking canvas. The electricity sings a melodic sonnet full of vibrato as it tangos with the ink to create such permanent fixtures to one’s soul.

There is a bittersweet boast of pride in watching one of my dearly beloved friends sitting in that cool, black chair having their skin forever changed. The broad, beaming grin is backed by a sheer excitement at seeing this history in the making; the kind of history that will not be written into any text book, but will be shared through story-telling and explanation of what exactly that particular piece of artwork signifies, if anything at all. No matter what the meaning, I was there. I bore witness to something significant in our friendship. Our bond increases.

However, in the back of my mind, I want to whisper curses at my friend for being where I desire to be. In the back of my mouth, swirling throughout my tongue I can taste the food that I will forsake to save enough money to get my next fix of ink and blood.

Oh God, I am addict. And I don’t even care.

I want another hit.


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